Hera, with thick hair,
tangled knots choking
already thin air.
We fear her charm,
her smile,
her heavy yolk.
That wicker cabinet
sprayed chrome,
in the corner,
where she keeps her thoughts,
sheds light off in harmonic ratios,
while wall, ceiling and floor fade to shadow.
Approaching the awful splendor,
the reflective wood,
brilliant emanations of
a merciless star nestled
within the bosom of a singularity.
The gaps between each branch
are barely visible, entering the room.
washed in light,
Approach it and chasms are revealed
deep pitches of darkness
Deeper than the most forgotten corner.
A blackness so cold it burns skin
disintegrates thought—
devours being.
A loneliness of air,
such that forms appear and disappear,
dancing across the either / or canvas,
possibility, or anti-actuality,
a liquid form of flowing emptiness.
No sound.
No rhythm
Nothing.
But escaping breathes of light.
Hera, with thick hair,
tangled knots choking
again thin air.
Cannibals: pocked teeth,
struggle against
darkened gums.
They thank her
for her patience
and her jest.